I know I resemble Gramma, but the look in my mother’s eyes reminds me how much of her is also in me. I hug her hard and hold her close.
The farewell is brief and I find myself drawn back to the book, devouring it page for page, deciphering any hiddenmeaning. Every thought feels like a reach and I close the book as the sun sets, realizing the hidden meaning was in chapter forty-two.
Apricity.
Finding the warmth of the sun in the winter.
Reluctantly, I pull out my phone and dial his number.
It goes straight to voicemail, and I don’t get to tell him: I read chapter forty-two.
forty-two
EVERY NOVEMBER, THEUniversal Literature Awards are held in New York. It’s both cultural and honorable—the best of the best are awarded and prized with money and crystal trophies. It’s an honor to be invited, an accomplishment to be nominated, and a thrill if you actually win.
Mom has won once and been nominated three times. This is her third nomination and she invited me as her date. I look back at years past, realizing she only ever took her agent, Steven, or her friend Lorraine from Seattle. There has never been a significant other for my mom... not since Dad.
“Thank you for coming,” Mom says as we walk into the banquet hall.
“Mom?” I ask as we find our assigned seats. She raises her eyebrows at me. “Why didn’t you date after Dad?”
She jerks back slightly. “Some people are meant to love only one person, I suppose. Even if the ending is tragic.”
An unwelcome lump snowballs in my throat and I immediately regret letting my intrusive thoughts spill out of my mouth. She pats my hand.
“The ceremony is about to start, so let’s not talk about that now.”
For once, I agree with her. Well maybe not for once, because if I’m being fair and honest, we’ve been doing a lot better since I broke up with Donavan. We’ve been doing better since Emily told her to fuck off too, though the disrespect was a major blow to their relationship. Regardless, it shook something in Momand it cracked open something in me. We’re far from perfect, but we’re so much better than we used to be. I even see glimpses of how she used to be before Dad died. The moments where I’m quite fond of her keep me wanting to mend our relationship.
The lights dim in the banquet hall and the stage shines. Big time authors like Maverick Hale and Juniper Arie receive awards for fiction and poetry. Mom loses to Daniel McStephenson for translated fiction and I squeeze her hand before she claps politely as he receives his award. When they get to Young People’s Literature, I’m ready to leave, tired from drinking too much champagne, and having calamari and stuffed mushrooms all but shoved down my throat by the server circulating every three and a half minutes.
As they read the list of finalists, I pop my seventeenth stuffed mushroom into my mouth.
“... Jacob Preston Chapman,Spreading Sprinkles...”
The crowd cheers politely, and I cough, spewing the mushroom out of my mouth and into the woman’s purse in front of me.
I’m mortified, but you wouldn’t know it because I can’t stop coughing—I guzzle my champagne to suppress the tickle in my throat—also a bad idea.
“Get it together!” Mom seethes through her teeth.
I breathe in once, then twice before I say, “Sorry.”
Mom’s posture stiffens, and her wooden smile flashes at everyone around us, stealing glances of my coughing fit. “He’s a good author, Julia. Don’t be so surprised,” she whispers.
My gaze frantically searches the room to see where he is while wondering how I missed him.
“And the award goes to... Jacob Preston Chapman,Spreading Sprinkles!” the announcer declares, and I want to dance and jump and scream for him.
Instead, when he takes to the stage, a tremble pulls through me like a tide that always takes me back to him.
He holds the glass trophy in his hand with a small smile on his face. “You know, grief is a funny thing,” he begins. “I’m sure most of us have heard the quote that grief is just love with no place to go. And it’s true, but it’s also words that we forgot to say, memories we don’t get to make, grandbabies that won’t be held by their grandpa, and bridesmaids that won’t stand next to their best friend at a wedding. It’s terrible. Because as much as grief reminds us how loved that person was, there’s still this hollow pulse in our hearts we wish we could fill with one more joke, one more conversation, one more piece of advice... So, while this book’s intention was to help children understand grief, it was for me, too. Because no matter how much I want certain people back in my life, I will cherish every single sprinkle they gave me. Thank you.”
Applause echoes in the room as Mom leans in and whispers in my ear, “I think he lost his dad last year too.”
The blood drains from my face. “He what?”
“His dad,” Mom whispers. “Died right after his wife.”
